


where do you run? (i run to you)

by noahfics



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Good Cows (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Nightmares, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28703676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahfics/pseuds/noahfics
Summary: “I know we may not get the chance to do this again,” Martin wants to say. “So, it means more than you know. And I know you weren’t happy to wake up, but I promise it’s going to be worth your while, so just sit tight.” It’s far from the first time he’s found himself getting a little too ahead of himself in terms of imagining what might lie ahead, but the moment is too perfect, and Martin just can’t find it in himself to force the words out.An exploration of Jon and Martin's time in the safehouse, in the company of the best cows.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 111





	where do you run? (i run to you)

**Author's Note:**

> This exact scenario has been in the back of my mind since I first heard these episodes, so I knew it had to be the first thing I posted.  
> Thanks to my good friend August, both for introducing me to TMA, and encouraging me to write this fic.
> 
> Finally, the title is from the song 'where do you run' by the score. If you've never heard, I highly recommend it.

The first thing that catches Martin’s eye is the amount of dust revealed instantaneously when he flicks on his flashlight. Clearly, Daisy had little use for this remote safehouse for the last several years, but even so, it’s the best sight he’s seen in a long, long time.

“Home sweet home,” Jon announces just behind him, hoisting his suitcase over the threshold. He sounds rather surprised to say, “it doesn’t seem half-bad at first glance.”

Martin nods once in agreement and turns on a switch that miraculously still connects to a bulb overhead, even if it’s a bit dimmer than he usually prefers. After having a chance to rest, maybe Martin will have it in himself to be a little more critical of his surroundings, but the green couch pushed against the wall calls to his exhausted bones. He can’t imagine Jon is much more well-rested, having driven them here from the train station.

“It’s probably best to be a bit wary, given whose house we’re in, but I just—” Martin waves his hand around, in a loose gesture. It’s surprisingly difficult to sum up what the pair of them have gone through in a sentence or two. 

“I just can’t care tonight.” He sets his suitcase on its side with a dull thump, zips it open, and rifles through until he finds a pair of pajama pants, toothpaste, and a pair of packaged toothbrushes.

“Jon?” he asks suddenly, rearranging the now displaced clothes. “Do you know if Daisy—Uh, has a proper bedroom here?” He can’t be certain which answer he’s hoping for; either way, they’ll have to pull down the sofa bed.

Jon raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t given much in the way of detail, but we can go find out?” He rolls his suitcase out of the way and heads for the upstairs hallway, which is a bit cramped. The runner in the middle of the floor curls at the far end, and there’s a door on each side; one, which they open first, is the bathroom. It doesn’t look to have been touched recently, but is relatively inoffensive. He pulls back the shower curtain, pleased to find a dusty tub. 

Martin is more than a little ashamed of, but glad Jon can’t see, the way his shoulders slump when the second door reveals a small desk, pair of nightstands, and a double bed stripped of its sheets. 

“Of course, you’re taking this room,” Martin offers. Jon sleeping in the proper bed only makes sense, given that he’d managed a broken hour of sleep on the train ride here, as opposed to nothing for Jon. He won’t even mention that he’s certain killing—vaporizing, to be specific—Peter, must have taken its toll on Jon. Martin frowns at this; Jon looks like he doesn’t even know the meaning of the word sleep at this point. 

“I don’t have the energy to discuss it tonight, so I’m going to check out the linen closet,” says Martin, holding his palms up flat. It’s uncharacteristic of him, but Jon doesn’t argue the point. He draws the curtains closed as Martin turns to hopefully find a pair or two of sheets.

It's no more than 10 seconds before Jon shouts, “Oh— Damn it!” and there’s an awful metallic scraping sound that has Martin grimacing as he reenters the bedroom, creaky door joining the symphony. All they need is nails on a chalkboard, and it'll be complete.

“What on _earth_?”

“The mattress must be old,” Jon snaps, rubbing both of his temples in exasperation. “If it sunk like that when I tried to sit down, then you’re certainly not going to try it out.”

Martin swears up and down his heart doesn’t catch in his throat when he speaks. “We’ll just brush our teeth, and hope that the sofa bed is a different situation.”

Thankfully, they don’t need to worry any further; the sofa bed is in fine condition, if not a little cramped for two grown men. It doesn’t take Jon more than ten minutes to pass out, face pressed firmly into the pillow. Although Martin wishes he could say he sleeps anywhere near as well, it’s more like he curls onto his side but finds himself unable to sleep, plagued by the thought that Jon is going to vanish if he dares to close his eyes.

Instead, Martin focuses on the deep breaths just to his right, and tries his best to forget everything that has led them to this point.

* * *

By the third day, Martin has passed out twice from exhaustion, they’ve made a trip into town for some food (on credit cards _technically_ stolen from Peter), and the pair of them have embraced their fate of sleeping together for the duration of their stay, though it’s not as if Martin had needed much in the way of convincing. If they _do_ decide to cuddle in the night, it’s probably more to conserve warmth, he reasons. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, if not for the fact that Jon _has_ to love him. It’s a realization that had plagued Martin on the train ride to Scotland— his brain being more than a little fuzzy meaning it's taken longer to connect the dots than he’s inclined to admit. Jon loves him, though; he made his way into the fog, rescuing Martin without hesitation, _because_ he loves him. Martin is surer of it than almost anything else.

It’s a fact that’s been keeping him up at night, mulling over the implications. Somehow, even days after the realization, no time has felt appropriate to ask Jon everything that’s been eating him alive. Martin wants answers, yes, but it’s easier, less exhausting, to ask the simple questions.

Martin’s voice is croaky as he asks, “how did you sleep?”

Jon shifts to his back, staring up at the wooden beams on the ceiling. “Alright, all things considered. And you?”

“About the same,” Martin says. He _had_ slept alright, despite the way Peter’s words continue to ring in his ears, despite the way his thoughts keep coming back to the way he loves Jon too, despite the way he wants to address it every moment of every day, but just can’t.

Instead of any of this, Martin rolls onto his opposite side, facing Jon, and nudges his shoulder under Jon’s hand, seeking the comfort of warmth and familiarity only he can provide these days.

Providing comfort is just what Jon does. Arms wrapped around Martin’s broad shoulders, fingers gingerly tucking the tag on Martin’s collar back in, it strikes him just how at ease he’s beginning to feel in their little routine.

Martin being Martin, though, his mind can’t help but race back to Peter’s words yet again. If he’s right—a possibility Martin has no option other than to consider, because of the way they almost haunt him—then why, _why_ are Jon’s arms the only place he feels completely himself these days?

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes trained on him.

“I’m _fine, Jon,_ ” he insists. For a normal, blissful moment they both close their eyes, Jon’s arms strong around him, and Martin secure with Jon’s promise to try and avoid Knowing about him.

Martin could get lost like this, sleep away hours, maybe even days. Out here in the country, there is little in the way of obligations, and none that are so urgent they couldn’t wait until tomorrow. A lifetime of habits and trying to stay on routine doesn’t leave one easy, though, and it’s not more than a few minutes of quiet, deep breaths before Martin speaks.

“I think it’s about time we find something to eat, hm?”

Jon flops onto his back, seemingly not quite ready to give up his peace — Martin can hardly blame him.

“You go ahead,” says Jon, like it’s some sort of favor. “I will… I’ll join you soon.”

It’s a lie, and both of them know it; his eyes are closed before Martin even breaches the doorway, but ironically, he doesn’t mind the alone time. After all this time, rifling through the cabinets, trying to assemble something that looks like breakfast for the two of them… it seems like a strange dream, an idea written off long ago.

The meal he assembles isn’t much, but Jon seems grateful after being woken a second time by Martin, and even more so when he shrugs and suggests that they have breakfast in bed.

“We’ll just— ah, hold this, please.” He places a steaming mug in Jon’s hands, clambering onto the bed without much grace. “We’ll be careful not to spill on the sheets.”

“That we will,” Jon agrees, reaching over Martin’s crossed legs to grab a teaspoon.

“Leave the teabag in for now,” Martin interjects before Jon has even retrieved the spoon. “Not that you need to question my clearly superior knowledge of all things tea, but as surprising as this may be, any tea here is well more than a year past expiration,” he supplies.

Jon purses his lips around the rim of the mug, cautious.

“Just needs to steep a bit longer, that’s all.”

Jon sets the spoon down on the nightstand and they eat, Martin silently pleased with himself for knowing Jon’s intentions, even if in this small way.

Peter can stick his words right back where they came from, he thinks flippantly. Of course he knows Jon, for God’s sake. He loves Jon. He _loves Jon_. He’s only become more certain of this as each day in the cottage is behind them.

He loves Jon, the warmth of a guiding arm wrapped around his waist, the way his eyes melted as they stared into Martin, insisting he’s okay, that he’s not alone after all.

He hardly knows how to do anything other than love Jon, and although he’s never found the right time to ask, Martin knows that Jon loves him back. He has to. You don't — No, you _can't_ do that for someone you don't love in some way. So why are they continuing to dance around it? Or rather, why is Martin?

“—tin. Martin, hey.” Jon’s words cut through in a way Martin isn’t sure he could do himself, and he prods, “are you… You know? Feeling alright?”

Martin’s cheeks immediately heat, and although the careful way Jon speaks tells Martin that he’s not compelling him, but rather genuinely concerned, he doesn’t quite meet Jon’s gaze as he lies, “yeah, feeling alright. I was thinking we’ll need to take a walk down to the village for some essentials, actually.” _We’ll talk about this later._

For as much as it seems like it pains him to do so, Jon accepts the lie with a nod. It’s becoming painfully aware to Martin, as it must be to Jon, that they can’t remain here forever, so neither of them is particularly keen on the idea of wasting precious time on arguments, however small they may be.

Yes, Martin thinks, and his shoulders slump. It’s far from what one might reasonably call a short walk through the village, but it’s a beautiful one from the little they've seen, and the fresh air is sure to do them well.

* * *

Having lived through enough trauma and horrors to fill a life three or four times the size of his own, Martin is no stranger to the idea that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. In fact, the older he gets, the more he finds himself looking over his shoulder, suspicious of the very world around him, and for good reason.

Perhaps it’s for this reason that it feels so alien to have settled into a comfortable routine alongside Jon. Martin is no liar; he enjoys waking up with Jon clinging to him, and setting out the extra cup every morning, making tea just the way Jon likes is a relaxing ritual all of its own, one he hopes to never give up.

As the pair of them make their way through the grassy countryside, Martin is struck by how easy it feels, like they’re just any regular old couple heading out to do the weekly shopping. He can forget the Institute, the deaths, the worms, even Peter, if he tries hard enough. He can forget all of it—a fact both merciful and cruel.

So, they’re not _exactly_ like any other couple, but whatever they are is good enough for Martin, and as they make their way through the countryside and towards the village, he feels the sun kissing the back of his neck, unobtrusive and comforting. The clouds stretch thin across the sky, illuminated up until they disappear beyond the hills. In this moment of bliss, Martin reaches out for Jon’s hand. 

He tenses for a moment, caught off guard, but quickly intertwines his fingers between Martin’s and squeezes three times in a silent admission of love. There’s no use in trying to stave off the heat that becomes Martin’s neck, cheeks, and ears as he returns the gesture, feeling a little lighter on his feet as they walk the dirt path.

It’s as close to a perfect moment as the two of them have ever had, Martin thinks, letting his eyes close and Jon guide them forward as Martin imagines being able to suspend this day—this moment, specifically—in time, to tuck it away and gaze upon no matter what may lay ahead of them. He settles for the next best thing, sneaking a sideways glance at Jon.

Jon is here, beside him, the only thing on their agenda is a trip to the market and the bookstore in the village, about another mile ahead of the pair. Martin seizes the moment to ask the question that’s been burning in his mind since they arrived.

“Who would have ever thought we’d be taking a vacation together?” Not quite the burning question after all, but it will suffice.

“A vacation,” repeats Jon with a chuckle. “That’s what we’ve decided to call this?”

In any case, Jon rubs at the back of his neck. agreeing that while no, he hadn’t exactly planned on something like this happening to the pair of them, it’s a welcome escape.

Chatter flows freely from that, mainly from Martin, but he’s certain neither of them mind as it makes their walk into the village fly by, and before long, they’ve paid a visit to the grocer, the local bookstore, and nearly made it back to their cottage nestled in the rolling hills.

Martin is admittedly a bit lost in the brightness of the sky, admiring the way the clouds seem to meander across its entire length, so much so that he doesn’t even notice the gray, scruffy animal trotting along the dirt path towards them until Jon throws a skinny arm against him and exclaims, “Watch out for it, Martin!”

Jon veers off to the side, glaring at the dog as he continues to back up, leaving Martin to burst into a fit of giggles as he slumps his shoulders in a poor imitation of Jon and drops his jaw.

“Watch out, Martin!” he teases through another round of laughter until he can practically feel Jon’s eyes burning into him. “I’m sorry. Really,” he says with a sheepish smile. “But it’s just a pet dog, that’s it. It’s not rabid; it even has a tag, see?” 

Crouching to make his large frame less intimidating, Martin outstretches his hand as a peace offering and scratches behind the dog’s ears, cooing how good it is. When its head flops against Martin’s knee, the cooing starts all over again.

Several yards away from Martin and his new friend, Jon leans his back against a pine tree, grunting under the weight of the canned goods he carries. He hoists it against his hip for support, but never lets his intense glare leave the mutt.

“I’m not going to wait for you to get attacked, you know,” he tells Martin. Once again, the paper bag begins to slide out of his grip, and he decides, “you stay and pet the thing, I want to be done carrying these groceries.”

“Oh don’t worry, you. I can defend myself from his vicious attack” Martin promises with a chuckle. He tries to think as far back as possible, but can’t remember a moment where he felt so at ease as he does right now, and so he’s far from eager to remove himself. Besides, the dog has flopped onto its back, so he _really_ can’t tear himself away. Jon grunts and starts towards the cottage, only a short distance up the road.

Martin can’t be exactly certain how long he spends with the dog; it doesn’t _feel_ like more than two or three minutes, but the deep blue sky has been painted over with orange and yellow so bold they practically glow, inky purple bleeding into the edges, so it must have been a fair few minutes, he thinks. Best to get back to Jon.

Still, he can’t help but allow himself to look up and marvel once more before unceremoniously scooping up the paper sacks, strolling down the dirt path in no particular rush.

The door creaks as he pulls it open, stepping into the hazy, dim light of the kitchen, no sight of Jon or the bag of food he had hauled home.

“Jon?” Martin calls out, but receives no answer back. He rubs his eyes, trying to ignore the way his heart begins to beat a little more rapidly, and flicks on the lightswitch. Nothing.

He glances out the window—has he been standing here for longer than he’s aware, or should the sun truly have set already?

Shaking his head, Martin turns back around, scanning his surroundings for any sign of Jon—coat or shoes by the door, bowls left at the kitchen table from their dinner the night before—and spots only one of those. His own bowl.

“Jon?” he tries again, though his tone wavers. Jon has a habit of forgetting to clean up after himself, but maybe Martin has poked enough fun at him that he’s taken it to heart and cleaned up his bowl. Martin nods; that’s exactly what had to have happened, and how considerate of Jon it is, now that they’re sharing a living space and all.

Of course. Jon’s tidied up, and now he’s in the other room, a fact of which Martin actively tries to force himself to believe. The hallway is endless as he makes his way past too many doors and framed photos on the wall, clammy fist closing around the brass knob of the spare bedroom.

“Jon,” he warns, “I’m coming in now, uh, so if you’re compromised, well—” and opens the door, not wanting to open his eyes when he hears nothing but silence. Sickness grows in the pit of his stomach, threatening to overcome him.

When he manages to pry his eyes open, Martin wills the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Jon is nowhere to be found, blanket neatly folded in the middle of the sunken double bed. Sparing a glance outside brings little in the way of comfort; no light comes through, and Martin can’t spot another soul, not even one of the cows across the distant pasture. Tears threaten to well up in the corners of his eyes, but Martin shakes his head, desperate to leave the bedroom behind him. 

“Jon, please say something!” Martin tries, too panicked to be ashamed of how desperate he sounds. “If—If you’re in here somewhere, I need you to... you need to say so. It’s not funny anymore!” _Never was,_ he thinks, and practically tears the bathroom door off its hinges with his force. .

Nothing. Nobody. On top of the sink, there’s a tube of toothpaste squeezed around the middle, and Martin hadn’t thought it possible, but his stomach sinks even further under the weight of his heart when he sees the lone toothbrush in the holder.

There’s no use in speed, but it doesn’t stop Martin from stumbling down the hallway as fast as he can, nearly tripping down the stairs as hot tears begin to well in his eyes. _Don’t cry_ , he chides himself. Don’t cry, just search for Jon.

Martin throws open the cottage door, even though every trace of him seems to have vanished, and steals panicked glances left and right, up and down. Jon has to be somewhere. He wouldn’t leave Martin, not like this. He couldn’t be so cruel as to pull Martin out from the Lonely, only to leave him stranded in a paradise-turned-hell… Would he? 

He’s pretty sure he continues to scream for Jon, but can’t hear it as he truly looks up, taking in the sky and the way that every friendly shade of blue has turned to a subdued grey, cloudless and… foggy.

All at once, Martin knows there’s no use in trying to resist it. He can look as much as he wants, but nothing can change the fact that any trace of life, human or otherwise, has vanished, displaced by an oppressive, thick fog. Even if Martin could fight back or find some way out of the fog, even were it not closing in from every possible angle, he wouldn’t. Nothing he can do will bring Jon back to him.

He is so, so alone, but can’t bear to look up at what was once the countryside but is now nothing more than bleak grey. Instead, Martin simply backs up until the stone of the cottage scrapes up against his t-shirt, and sinks, sobbing and hyperventilating into his own freezing hands, as it seems he’s damned to do for whatever eternity is in front of him.

He sobs like he’s never known pain before, because he never could have seen this coming, not in his wildest dreams.

Somehow, though, it all makes sense. Of course, Martin deserves to be alone. Why would Jon waste his time on Martin? Why comfort him, why try to be there for somebody when all they deserve is this eternal lonesomeness? Why _waste your time_ , he thinks bitterly, going into such a place, just to rescue someone like him—

Martin recoils as something that isn’t quite pinpricks grip his shoulders, and then, as it spreads onto his other shoulder and spans his back, he cries out in pain, tensing up and writhing in the grip of whatever thing has decided to come for him.

“Please, no,” he sobs hoarsely, and braces to plead as much again, when his own name begins to echo in his ears, pinpricks intensifying into a momentarily blistering heat.

“I’m here, Martin. I’m right here,” somebody far away promises, and the heat fades to a pleasant warmth rubbing his back, though Martin, eyes wide, hiccups and sniffles, glancing wildly around the room.

“You’re okay,” the kind voice—Jon, Martin thinks, and relaxes his shoulders however slightly—assures him. “You were having a nightmare, but I have you. I’m—” he hesitates, small arms wrapping around Martin’s neck and burying his head against Martin’s chest. “I’m right here. I’m not going to go anywhere, not without you.”

“Jon,” Martin rasps, repeating the name again because he can, and Jon is here, and none of it was real. He stretches his hands across Jon’s pointy shoulder blades, and breathes a sigh of relief, safe in Jon’s arms, tears carefully wiped away with a cotton sheet.

Martin almost relaxes, that is, until he steals a glance at the glowing moon and realizes with horror how late it actually is, and how he’d interrupted Jon’s sleep, fragmented as it already is.

“I’m so sorry to wake you up like that, Jon. Really,” he whispers, too ashamed of himself to say it clearly. “I—I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, to be honest.” He shudders a deep sigh, thinking that maybe Jon has gone back to sleep, and resolves himself to try and do the same, attempting to untangle himself from Jon’s arms. He just needs a moment to be alone, funnily enough, and he’ll be alright.

But Jon doesn’t seem like he’s about to let that happen. His arms curl around Martin, small but strong and comforting.

“Stay,” he requests gently, voice deep from sleep. Martin’s heart jumps in his chest, this time around in a distinctly more pleasant way. “Nothing is wrong with you, for the record. What you went through, Martin... It's only normal, what's happening to you." He's still half asleep, so pauses for a bit before asking, "do you need to try and talk about it, or try and get some rest?" Jon wouldn’t exactly have to use his imagination to know what might have scared Martin so deeply, but even so, Martin doesn’t think he’ll be able to get back to sleep until he gets it out of his system, and maybe not even then.

“Yeah, I want—I think I _need_ to talk about it,” he decides. “But I need a minute. Will you just hold me until then?” Martin's shoulders stiffen almost immediately; it's a rather pathetic request. He knows this, but can't shake the feeling of the fog, and he's more than relieved when Jon tells him yes, of course he doesn't mind.

Jon shuffles, grabbing the hem of the too-thin blanket, and pulls it up tighter around Martin’s shoulders, his steady breaths a comfort. He feels a little pathetic to be a grown man his age, needing to be cuddled back to sleep in Jon’s arms because of a damn nightmare of all things, but can’t fight off the unsettled feeling, and nuzzles a little closer, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Take your time,” Jon assures.

Nodding against the top of Jon’s head, Martin sighs shakily and begins with their walk home from the village and his arrival home. “Your jacket, your shoes, nowhere to be found. I looked everywhere for you, but it was like you—you,” he tries, but the words catch in his throat, and Martin can’t get enough oxygen in his lungs as the memory washes over him, as fresh as the last time.

“You were… never here,” he finishes almost silently; suddenly aware of the way he’s bunched up the back of Jon’s shirt in his fist, and lets it go, clearing his throat. “Uh. Sorry.”

Martin can practically feel Jon’s frown in response to the apology, but he seems to have let his displeasure take a backseat to the more important conversation at hand. Though it pains him, Martin stumbles through explaining the way that the grey fog closed in around him, reminding him just how alone he truly was.

He can’t bring himself to explain any further, and he doesn’t have to, because Jon is rubbing his stubbly jawline with a scarred hand, whispering, “I’m here, Martin. I—There’s nobody, nothing I would let take me away from you.” Lifting his gaze until they meet eyes, Jon’s soften in such a way that Martin has never seen. It’s so vulnerable, so human, despite all Jon has been through. 

In the washed out moonlight, Jon’s silvery hair gleams and it strikes Martin just how much he loves this man, how he, too would do most anything to stay with him, God forbid have a life together. He opens his mouth to say as much, but what comes out instead will have to suffice.

“Can I kiss you?” Martin asks breathily, words ringing in his ears. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut in the moments after—the way they tick by feeling like hours. 

Jon fingers cease their gentle, reassuring movement for an impossible moment, and Martin hardly has time to hope he’s not being turned down before they meet in a slow kiss, all the air sucked dry out of Martin’s lungs.

If not for the bed, he would surely melt into the floor. Jon is kissing him in the middle of the night, their limbs tangled, and all is finally right in the world. It’s all Martin can do to ask for more silently, drinking in the way he feels so perfectly at home.

By the time Jon has drifted off with an arm firmly slung over Martin’s torso, Martin is faintly aware of the birds beginning to chirp outside the windows. In another life, he might groan and throw the pillow over his head, turning away. In this one, though, it’s only a few moments before he has the best sleep of his life.

* * *

Jon seems… displeased to see Martin crouching by his side of the bed, to say the least. “What—” he begins, voice slightly hoarse from sleep. He clears his throat and speaks again: “What on _earth_ are you doing by my bedside right now, of all times?” 

“You’ll see in just a few minutes,” Martin promises. “I already got two cups of tea ready, and you won’t even need to change out of your pajamas.”

Jon grunts in response, throwing his forearm over his eyes, and takes a slow, deep breath. He’s eerily still for a moment, and Martin bites back a small laugh as he asks, “are you waiting for me to... _leave?_ So you can fall back asleep?”

Affronted, Jon finally scoots up against the headboard, squinting in the breaking daylight. “No,” he lies. “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Good. Doesn’t sound much like you, but you never know.” Martin leans against the doorway, running a hand through his unruly curls, and waits as Jon practically pries himself out from under the covers, pulling the hood of Martin’s jackets over his head.

“Don’t you say a thing,” he commands, shuffling out of the bedroom without another word.

No small number of ways to tease his sleepy boyfriend cross Martin’s mind, but he’s sure if he dares, Jon won’t hesitate to crawl back under the covers and lock him out. Instead, he makes a beeline for the linen closet, selects two sufficiently thick blankets, and rummages through the kitchen until he’s able to scrounge up a pair of lids for the travel mugs Daisy had left behind. Luckily, Martin had thought to wash the dishes not long after they’d arrived, or they’d still be covered in a layer of dust.

Martin isn’t overly impatient, but Jon takes his sweet time to get ready, and he’s waiting at the door by the time Jon has returned with his forgotten slippers, which he slides onto his feet, grabbing his mug from the counter.

He wraps his free arm around his skinny waist as Martin ushers him out to the porch, door closing with a thud behind them. If Martin knows Jon as well as he does, he’d like to complain about having to take a walk this early in the morning, but he’s probably still feeling a little too foggy to voice such complaints.

“It’s only a few minutes of walking,” Martin says, but keeps quiet for that stretch, silently taking in the way the dew seems to coat each droplet of grass, shimmering as the sunrise bathes the highlands in warm, yellow light.

“I walked up here during your nap the other day,” he tells Jon, who hums in acknowledgement, and holds out his own travel mug to Jon with a cock of his head. There’s a small cloud of dust as he unfolds the first blanket, shakes it a few times, and lays it out underneath a tree, smoothing the majority of the wrinkles. He repeats the process with the second blanket, turning around to face Jon, who flickers his eyes upwards, expression not quite readable.

Martin’s half-worried he’s going to turn around and head back to the cottage, but instead, he sinks down onto the blanket after returning the travel mug to Martin, blinking as he continues to adjust to the sunlight.

“Jon?” Martin begins, sitting down beside him so that their knees brush together. “I just—Just. I wanted to say thanks. For humoring me,” his voice is a little muffled as he holds the mug close, warmed by the small amount of steam.

“I know we may not get the chance to do this again,” he wants to say. “So, it means more than you know. And I _know_ you weren’t happy to wake up, but I promise it’s going to be worth your while, so just sit tight.” It’s far from the first time he’s found himself getting a little too ahead of himself in terms of imagining what might lie ahead, but the moment is too perfect, and Martin just can’t find it in himself to force the words out. 

When he hears the distant clicking of a gate, Martin’s head perks up, curls bouncing slightly. He keeps his eyes trained to the left, where the noise came from, and before long, he claps Jon on the back in excitement.

“Look!” he exclaims as the large silhouettes of a herd of cows begin towards them, heads bobbing as they trot forwards to the pasture Martin had stumbled upon the other day. Conservatively, he thinks there must be at least a dozen of them; they’re mostly reddish, some black, and each of them cuter than the last.

He reaches out for Jon’s hand without a second thought, pleased when he doesn’t seem to mind trudging through the wet grass. It’s much more difficult to walk slowly, as all Martin wants is to drag him out to the pasture like an overeager child, but can’t imagine Jon would take too kindly to that.

By the time the pair have approached the fence, a few of the friendlier cows have decided to greet their new visitors and stick their necks over the metal gate, fuzzy hair blowing in the wind whenever they look upwards.

“You’ve never pet one of these?” Martin guesses. Jon’s feet are firmly planted about a foot behind where Martin stands, stroking the soft nose of the cow in front of him. “Well, if you’re worried… Don’t be.” He shakes his head, the advice feeling a touch over-simplified.

“Even if they could hurt you—” Poor choice of words. He feels Jon’s grimace before he peeks over his shoulder for confirmation, “—they wouldn’t. I’m not even sure they can see through all this hair, to be honest,” he chuckles.

With a tentative step forwards, Jon offers a flat palm to one of the black cows, though he makes sure to watch with a raised eyebrow as it tickles the palm of his hand with its lips. When a smile breaks across his lips, the warmth that Martin feels has nothing to do with the sun.

“I don’t know if you were aware that I was more than a little bit skeptical of waking up so early, let alone taking a walk,” says Jon. He’s taken to running scarred hands through the coarse fur of a particular favorite cow as he speaks. “But I’m glad I decided to… How did you put it, humor you?”

Martin gives a small nod, though he doesn’t want to give away just how happy he is to have been right. Back in London, Jon might have woken up more easily, but since they’ve been off the grid, asking him to get up before the sun has had a chance to rise is a big favor.

“Well, I am. It's nice out here, knowing these things aren't going to try and maul me. And don’t let it get to your head, either,” he says. If Martin looked up a half a second later, he'd have missed Jon's small smile, evident in the wrinkles that form by the corner of his eyes.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll try not to,” Martin agrees. Sweet as they might be, it’s not much longer before the cows lose patience and join the rest of their group, Jon and Martin turning back to their makeshift picnic.

* * *

If you ask Martin, it’s rather surprising that it takes as long as it does for one of them to come down with some sort of illness, given, well… Everything. When Jon woke before the break of dawn a shaky, sweaty mess, the first thing Martin had done was toss another log on the fire. The second was to collect both blankets from the upstairs bedroom and lovingly drape them over Jon’s side of the sofa bed.

“Your forehead is burning up,” he’d observed with a frown. “You’ll sweat it out, being so close to the fireplace.” Sick, but not a different person entirely, Jon did his fair amount of griping about how unnecessary the whole affair was, how it’s just residual effects from going without reading a statement for several weeks, and he’s going to be back on his feet in no time anyway.

“Sure,” Martin allowed, knowing Jon wouldn’t mind after being offered his company and a cup of tea. He was right, of course; the moment Martin laid beside him on the squeaky mattress, there wasn’t another word of dissent.

The curtains have remained drawn all day, so it’s difficult to gauge exactly how long they’ve been in this one spot, drifting out of sleep—mostly Jon—and flipping through the better part of one of the few poetry selections the village bookstore had to offer—Martin, of course.

It’s rather peaceful, reading his poetry by the light of the fire, Jon’s warm cheek pressed against his chest, arm draped over Martin’s stomach. If moving him when he wasn’t feeling unwell was an ordeal, Martin can’t be sure how to refer to how clingy a sleeping Jon is today. All he knows is that he’s resolved to get up as few times as possible, even foregoing a second or third cup of tea.

Despite the lack of caffeine, he’s not feeling particularly tired, so it’s somewhat of a surprise when Jon wakes him with a gentle but insistent shake.

He gives a moment of pause for Martin to rub his eyes and wake up a bit before he makes his request.

“Is there any chance you’d be willing to go to the pharmacy for me?” 

Jon is far from a complainer about most typical ailments, but even if he weren’t, he looks so pitiful that Martin would probably agree no matter what. It’s only a matter of minutes before he slips a jacket on, kisses Jon on the forehead, and promises to be back as soon as he can.

Jon’s half asleep by the time Martin closes the door as quietly as he can manage. Keeping an eye out for local wildlife makes the somewhat long walk pass by pretty quickly. He’s glad to have gone after all, not only finding medicine and a pint of soup for his poor Jon, all laid up in bed, but also a parcel from Basira, no doubt containing the statements she’d promised to send when she could manage to get her hands on the,.

Martin makes the journey home feeling a little lighter on his feet; he’s just relieved to have something that will actually ease Jon’s symptoms.

He’s feeling so relieved, in fact, that he even pokes a little fun at Jon, curled up under the mass of thin blankets. 

“Morning, sleeping beauty.” It’s only half a joke. Once Jon has stopped squinting up at him, Martin holds the brown package up, waving it back and forth a few times. Just as predicted, Jon’s face lights up with cautious optimism. The nausea factor in particular had been rough on him, only stopping when he managed to fall asleep on Martin.

“Statements from Basira,” Martin confirms, tossing it onto the bed without a sound. “I didn’t think they would arrive so soon, but here they are.”

He shifts from one foot to the other, watching Jon, who doesn’t tear into the package just yet. Of course. He wants relief, and he wants to read the statements alone. 

“Of course you do,” Martin permits, not needing confirmation. “I found you a nice soup, it’s in the bag. And pills, if the statement doesn’t fully do the trick.”

The weather is fairly mild, so Martin can’t say he minds getting a little more fresh air—after all, it was once a luxury he didn’t have. His hand is wrapped around the brass knob before he makes a split second decision, briskly turning towards the sofa bed.

“Forget some—? _Oh_ ,” Jon breathes, craning his neck upwards a bit as Martin tilts his head slightly, kissing Jon like he’s admiring a work of art, one he never wants to forget the shape of.

“Forgot something important,” he agrees with the slightest nod, and even though he has every intention to turn and be on his way, he can’t help but lean in for another gentle kiss, giving an almost-silent laugh as they break apart, because he’s so damn lucky, having all the time in the world to do exactly this.

As Martin does turn to go, he’s struck with the strange urge to tell Jon he’ll miss him, and has to stop himself from laughing out loud at how ridiculous he’s starting to sound. Spend a few weeks in a safehouse with Jon, away from most of humanity, and he can hardly find it within himself to leave for less than an hour without telling Jon he’ll miss him.

Taking a moment to be thankful the morning dew has already dried, Martin settles in a recently discovered, self-proclaimed perfect spot. He can hear the same cows they’ve bonded with as they moo out in the pasture, and can’t help the little smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth each time.

He can’t quite see them, but over his shoulder, spots the stone chimney of their cottage, where he hopes Jon is already starting to feel more at peace. Soothed by the sounds of the countryside and secure in the knowledge that Jon is safely nearby, Martin closes his eyes, and breathes in deep.

It strikes him how, after all these years, this is the one place he feels truly at home. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on twitter (@gayramble) or tumblr (jazens)  
> Thanks for reading!


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